The night had settled gently over the village, the kind of night that lulled the careless into peace. Crickets sang from the rice fields, their rhythm steady and unbothered, and the moon hung low, pale and watchful, casting silver light over narrow dirt paths and clay-roofed homes.
Seraphine walked alone.
Her steps were quiet, measured, as if the earth itself listened when she moved. A woven basket hung from her arm, faintly scented with crushed leaves and roots—her remedies for the elderly woman she had just treated on the far edge of the village. She had stayed longer than intended. The fever had been stubborn, and Seraphine never liked leaving a patient until she was certain the danger had passed.
The village was familiar, every turn memorized since childhood, yet tonight something felt… off.
The air was too still.
She slowed, fingers tightening around the basket handle. Years of living quietly had taught her how to listen—not just with her ears, but with instinct. Somewhere behind her, a sound shifted. A footstep, hurried and uneven. Not a villager's relaxed gait.
Before she could turn, an arm wrapped around her waist and dragged her sideways.
She barely had time to gasp before she was pulled off the path, branches scraping her arms as she was hauled into darkness. A hand clamped over her mouth, firm and unyielding, cutting off her scream before it could escape.
Her back hit stone.
A cave—shallow, hidden behind thick brush. Cool air rushed over her skin, sharp and damp. Her heart thundered violently as she struggled, nails digging into unfamiliar fabric.
"Don't," a voice whispered harshly against her ear.
It was low. Strained. Breathing uneven.
"Not a sound," the man murmured again, his grip tightening—not cruel, but desperate. "If you scream, we're both dead."
Fear flared hot and wild in her chest.
She twisted, trying to knee him, but he shifted quickly, pressing her back against the rock wall. His body blocked the cave's opening, shielding her from view. She could feel the tremor in his arms, the faint shudder he couldn't suppress.
Blood.
She smelled it then—sharp, metallic, unmistakable.
Footsteps approached.
"Search the ridge," a man's voice called from outside, rough and careless. "He couldn't have gone far in that condition."
Another voice laughed. "Maybe he crawled into a hole and bled out. Would save us the trouble."
The man holding her lowered his head, his breath brushing her ear again. "Please," he whispered this time—not a command, but a plea. "Just… cooperate."
Before she could process what he meant, he shifted his hand slightly—not releasing her mouth, but loosening enough to murmur sharply, "Make a sound. Like… like we're lovers. Now."
Her eyes widened in fury and disbelief.
He leaned closer, close enough that his forehead touched hers, his breath ragged. His body pressed in—not intimate, not possessive, but calculated. His other hand braced against the stone beside her head, trapping her between him and the cave wall.
She understood then.
If the men outside heard nothing, they would search harder.
If they heard this… they would dismiss it.
Seraphine swallowed her anger and forced out a shaky sound—not of pleasure, but irritation, sharp enough to sell the illusion.
"Are you insane?" she snapped softly, voice pitched just loud enough. "Not here—someone might hear."
The man stiffened in surprise.
Then he adapted instantly.
"I couldn't wait," he muttered, deliberately rough, his voice carrying. "You walked off alone."
Outside, a voice snorted. "Disgusting. Even villagers have no shame these days."
"Leave them," another said. "He's not here."
The footsteps retreated, laughter fading into the distance.
The moment the sounds disappeared, the man sagged.
His weight fell forward abruptly, no longer controlled.
Seraphine barely managed to catch him before his knees gave out completely.
"Hey—!" she hissed, struggling as he collapsed against her.
They slid down the cave wall together, his body heavy and burning hot. Up close, she could see the damage—dark blood soaking through his side, staining his clothes nearly black. His face, half-lit by moonlight, was pale and drawn, jaw clenched as if holding himself together through sheer will.
And then his eyes rolled back.
He went completely limp.
Silence filled the cave.
For a heartbeat, Seraphine simply stared at him—this stranger who had terrified her, used her, and nearly gotten them both killed.
Then anger surged.
She shoved him hard, letting him slump fully onto the ground. "Unbelievable," she muttered, breath shaking. "Absolute madness."
She kicked his leg once—not hard enough to injure, but enough to vent her fury. "Dragging people into caves like a lunatic."
No response.
Her gaze dropped again to the wound, to the shallow rise and fall of his chest. The bleeding was severe, the edges of the injury ugly and uneven—likely from a blade.
He wouldn't survive the night without help.
Seraphine closed her eyes briefly.
She could leave.
No one would blame her.
But she was not built that way.
With a quiet curse, she stood and slipped out of the cave, careful to remain hidden as she moved into the bushes nearby. Her hands worked quickly, selecting leaves and roots by touch and scent alone—plants she had gathered countless times before. Crushed yarrow for bleeding. Mugwort for pain. A thin sliver of bone needle from her pouch.
When she returned, she knelt beside him without hesitation.
Her movements were precise, practiced. She cleaned the wound, pressed herbs into the gash, her fingers steady despite the danger. Then came the acupuncture—needles placed at exact points to slow the bleeding, to stabilize his breathing.
Minutes passed.
His breathing evened.
The bleeding slowed.
Only then did she allow herself to breathe.
As she reached to check his pulse, her fingers brushed something hard in his inner pocket. A pen—sleek, heavy, nothing like what a village man would carry. She paused, then withdrew it, frowning. It bore no name, but its craftsmanship spoke of wealth.
She searched another pocket and found folded cards—medical instructions, written neatly, precise and professional.
Her brows knit together.
This man was no ordinary fugitive.
She returned the cards carefully, then stood, hesitating only a moment before slipping the pen into her sleeve.
A keepsake, she told herself. Payment for terror and trouble.
By the time dawn crept toward the horizon, Seraphine was gone.